Para

Why is it always me? Of course, I had to be the one standing next to Peet, the fucking good-for-nothing coward, guarding the palisade. Naturally, the moment he saw an orc, the shithead bolted. If only he knew the horrors I've seen these swine commit.

Memories of my village, my mother, my sister surged back, and the familiar pain set in.

But with the pain came the hate. Hate for the orc before me. Hate for his kind. Hate for Kafd, the shithole settlement I've called home for months now. Hate for its inhabitants, who could all share my village’s fate for all I care. You’d think facing a common enemy like the Legion would unite everyone. But no. If you’re a human, elf, or even a half-blood like most here, they stand together. But if you're a half-blood from foreign lands like me, you're to blame for everything. Yesterday, I heard the fisher's son, Mets, claim that my presence had drawn the orcs here, that I was responsible for the poor catch.

He was also the one spreading lies that I offered my body for a loaf of bread after he failed to fuck me one night. Since that rumor, no one would give me work.

They called me a dirty whore. But apparently, a dirty whore is still good enough to guard the palisade with a knife.

I focused on the orc before me. He was nearly twice my height and many times broader. He wielded a club in his left hand. They say orcs, unlike humans and elves, are left-handed. He limped on his left leg, blood seeping from a wound. Likely a hit from the mercenaries’ sharpshooters. A potential advantage.

“I’ll gut you, you fucking swine, for what you and your kind did to my sister,” I spat with venom.

The orc grunted, raising his club. I dodged to the right, feeling the ground tremble as his club struck where I had stood. He grunted again, this time with irritation. He swung wide, and I dodged again. But it was a feint. The orc didn’t strike, waiting instead.

Shit.

I had leapt to the left, making myself an easy target. I could almost see my skull being crushed in my mind’s eye.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

I looked up at the orc and could swear I saw a triumphant grin.

No. After what these bastards did to my family, I wouldn’t die so easily.

The orc swung down, and in a desperate act, I lunged towards him. His club grazed my left arm, dislocating my shoulder.

“Ahh,” I screamed, feeling the agony of my dislocated arm.

But now, I was within striking distance, and the orc was exposed. Ignoring the pain, I unleashed a flurry of stabs at his throat.

“This is for Kelisva, you fucker,” I cursed as blood gushed from his wounds. The orc looked at me, bewildered, pressing his hand to his neck as if to stem the blood flow.

But I wasn’t done. Screaming, I rolled between his legs and slashed his hamstrings.

The orc collapsed like a felled tree. He twitched on the ground.

"Oh no, you're not getting off that easily!" I screamed, my voice breaking. The suppressed memory of my family felt like it was suffocating me, every second pushing me closer to the brink of madness.

Driven by this madness, I turned the orc's head towards me and gouged out his eyes. His body gave one last spasm, then lay still at my feet.

I took my knife and sawed off his head. Screaming, I held it aloft, the massive head almost comical in its size. People on and behind the palisade turned and stared. Those who had fled returned, watching me.

I must have looked terrible, drenched in orc blood, my eyes wide with a crazed look.

Laughing, I spun around, and people stepped back, their faces showing an expression I had never seen directed at me before.

Fear.

The same fear they showed when they encountered one of the eight Tarons of the Thorn Company.

Further down, I saw some of those very beings on the palisade, including their Imperator. That’s how he introduced himself at the marketplace, though I had no idea what the title meant.

Something about them fascinated me. They looked different from everyone else here, yet the townsfolk showed them more respect than their own leader. I had heard the men in the tavern whisper about them, secretly, as if the Tarons could hear them at any moment.

It was the first time I heard of their race, Tarons, self-proclaimed human gods. The men told tales like fairy stories. That they were cold monsters who hunted humans for sport. And one phrase kept coming up: Lux in umbra.

The young Imperator, who couldn’t be much older than me, stared at me with his deep red eyes, eyes like mine. I laughed again, for in that moment, I felt no fear, but a deep desire. Not for lust, but the budding urge for blood, for battle. And something else: appreciation.

I didn’t know why, but it felt right.

I lifted the severed head again and showed it to the Taron. Then I hurled it towards him.

The orc head would never reach him, not with my feeble strength. Yet everyone watched its flight.

Suddenly, the Taron extended his arm, and the head stopped mid-air. Just like that. A murmur ran through the crowd.

Magic.

Then the head floated into the Imperator’s outstretched hand, and I saw him smile and nod at me.

Only then, freed from the battle frenzy, the song of blood, could I feel the ground trembling.